


I’ll fix myself up when the moment is right

by Lenami



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst, Discussion of feeling of depersonalisation, Gentleness, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Sex, In a way, Loneliness, M/M, Melancholy, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Rated mature because of heavy discussion topic, Swearing, cos that wouldn't be me without it, god they can't talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 15:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenami/pseuds/Lenami
Summary: “Does this help, in reality?"“It does empty your head.” He shrugged in a dismissive way, but it felt forced.It looked forced.“Makes you feel wanted. Makes you feel disposable.”He sat down on the floor by Steve’s legs, almost close enough to feel heat radiating from his skin...."Horacio is gone. Horacio is dead with Escobar’s bullet in his head", he thought, grief curling around his mind. "Horacio is dead and I am here, alive."
Relationships: Horacio Carrillo & Javier Peña, Steve Murphy/Javier Peña
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	I’ll fix myself up when the moment is right

**Author's Note:**

> God, writing this fic was so much more difficult that I have though it would be because trying to make those two actually talk about their feelings while also trying to stay in character is almost impossible. Someone get them some therapy.  
> The title is a line from a song "Soft Landing" by Saint Raymond.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this!

“I didn’t expect you here tonight.” Steve’s voice echoed through their shared empty room when Javier shut the door behind him with unnecessary momentum.

He sat on the bottom bunk with a cigarette in his hand, legs outstretched. It looked like he tried so hard to fake a relaxed pose, that Javier felt dry, mirthless amusement rising in his throat at the sight.

“Here I am.” He answered, real frustration barely masked behind the irony.

“A woman couldn’t cure this one wound?”

Steve sounded unconvinced of his own words, so Javier let the insult slide. As he took off his jacket, he could feel Steve’s glare from across the room, burning a hole in his back. Uncertainty suddenly washed over him, and he stood still, one hand still clenched around the coat hanger as if it could give him back any of the stability they lost tonight.

“I couldn’t – ” He started in softer voice, but he stumbled over the words. “ – I couldn’t touch anyone. Couldn’t stand it.”

He pushed back from the wall and walked over to their improvised breakfast table to grab the most seemingly clean glass and pour some whisky for himself. On the tiny table were piled dirty plates, cups full of day-old coffee and stacks of papers that have already lost their relevance.

“Javi – ” Just by the voice, Javi could tell that Steve was much calmer than him and it spiked his irritation even more. Alcohol burned his throat and he grimaced at the taste of cheap liquor that Steve kept buying for some reason. “Does this help, in reality? Fucking?”

“It does empty your head.” He shrugged in a dismissive way, but it felt forced.

It looked forced.

“Makes you feel wanted. Makes you feel disposable.”

He sat down on the floor by Steve’s legs, almost close enough to feel heat radiating from his skin. His back painfully collided with bed’s metal frame.

Silence that fell over them was tense but not uncomfortable. Javier just stared emptily at the scratches at the wall on the other side of the room, taste of cheap alcohol lingering in his mouth.

 _It’s bad,_ it came to his head. _Everything, everything, everything._

“Do you want to feel disposable?” Steve looked at him questioningly, doubt mixed with concern behind his eyes.

“It takes away the responsibility. If it could be me, it could be anyone.” Javier looked up at him, right in his eyes, and after a second of silence, smiled ironically, in unpleasant manner. “But it isn’t true. Mistakes, unlike right choices we make, are unique to the person who made them.”

Steve made a sour face. Weariness was visible in a slump of his shoulders.

 _He is nervous,_ Javier realized, observing the way tip of his shoe jumped up and down.

“They are unique to the circumstances of that person.”

Silence that fell over them felt bitter.

“Whatever you say.” Javier shrugged again, taking cigarette from between Steve’s fingers before putting it out on the floor. It didn’t mask the tremor of his hand as well as he hoped it would.

Steve took a sharp, loud breath before speaking again:

“Do you need to feel wanted?”

“Do you?” Javier answered without missing a beat, his grip around the glass tightening. The answer to the question did not come, so he continued, spitting out words bitterly, seemingly more to himself than Steve:

“I am no one’s.”

“Javi – ”

“I am a rootles man.” He took another slug of whisky to aid himself in this nonsensical monologue. “I belong to the fucking institution. American government. To the case. It has no permanence. No personality. Nothing. It’s a promise of emptiness.”

Something cold settled in his stomach as he put down the empty glass on the floor and watched as his own fingers trembled, now devoid of anything to ground them.

“Fuck.” His head suddenly felt too heavy without any support and he rested forehead against the palm of a hand. Apathy that clouded his mind disappeared – now, nothing protected him from the phantom pain of grief in his chest.

The ache spilled inside of him, cold and burning at the same time.

It was fucking unbearable.

His shoulders started to shake with a silent sob brought by the agonizing pain but there were no real tears.

“Javi.” Steve was suddenly on the floor next to him, warm hands pulling up his useless body to sit him on the bed. “C’mon. Just – let me, alright?”

“Fuck you, Murphy.” He murmured, almost inaudibly but he let Steve manhandle him. Breath caught in his throat – the sound he let out sounded almost inhuman; somewhere between ironic, breathy laugh and a pained wail.

They sat too close to each other, legs touching, face to face, their breaths mingling with each other. Steve took his hand – intertwined their fingers carefully, gentle, like a lover would, but his grip was strong, almost painful. Grounding.

“It’s normal. It’s normal.” He stopped speaking for a moment, brows furrowed with heavy concern. “It’s normal to feel this way. It is.”

Words soaked through the tense space between them and Javier sat completely still – the only thing left in his mind was sensation of warm fingers around his hand.

But it did not last long. Steve tentatively rested his other hand on Javier’s knee and he bolted into the empty space of the room at the overwhelming feeling. Restless energy hid just right under his skin, moving his legs and arms, making him pace furiously, flex his fingers uselessly. They felt fragile, brittle and he felt overwhelming need to slam his hand into something.

To feel any difference.

He banged his fist on the table – horrible, loud sound echoed in the emptiness but nothing else happened. Steve did not flinch, watching him carefully with deep sadness in his eyes.

“Fuck.” Javier almost shouted desperately and with the next swing, he threw pile of documents and a plate off the table. It broke in half with almost no sound to it.

“Fuck”

The wall was next in line to be assaulted but the it was spared that miserable fate as he felt pair of arms wrapping around him from behind, dragging him back and creating safe distance.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Murphy!”

“I would be more willing to do so if you actually promised that you won’t trash our room anymore.”

Javier remained silent, childishly stubborn.

“It won’t – listen, I am not good at this but I can’t look at you in this state.” Steve’s grip tightened and somewhere behind sea of anger, Javier felt some deep part of himself appreciate protectiveness of the gesture.

“Who the fuck keeps you here then?” He spat out, some vile part of him delighted with the bitterness of the words. “You are the one to talk, Steve, what a fucking hypocrite you are – ”

“It’s alright.” Steve whispered into his shoulder, fingers still grasping Javier’s arms but the pressure around his chest softened. “It will be alright, Javi.”

Javier turned in his arms to face him and saw the same exhaustion in the man before him that he felt swarming inside of him. Without a word, he rested his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. Warm hands cradled his head and they stood in silence that overwhelmed with calmness when the rage still echoed between them.

“Just – let me, let me do this.” Steve murmured into his hair. “Alright?”

“Do your worst.” Javier mumbled in response, now completely drained of energy.

“Let’s get you to bed then.”

This night was filled with dreamless, deep sleep. Just darkness.

Javier woke unusually late in the morning, confused and sore from sleeping with his limbs curled up and watched the spots of golden light on the dirty white ceiling.

 _Horacio is gone. Horacio is dead with Escobar’s bullet in his head,_ he thought, grief curling around his mind. _Horacio is dead and I am here, alive._

The room was drowning in honey hue of Colombian morning. Javier stretched out his legs, his joints cracking audibly as he listened to Steve’s footsteps.

“You woke up.”

“No shit, Murphy.”

“Alright, I think that our agent Peña is back.” Steve leaned against the wall, arms crossed on his chest, already fully dressed. “I am off to Bogota today.”

His expression was unreadable.

“If you changed your mind – ”

“I don’t do funerals.”

“That means I will be going then.” Steve sighed heavily. Javier watched him as he walked through the room but he hesitated when he reached the door, hand still on the handle.

“One more thing, Javi.”

“Yes?”

“Take better care of yourself.”

The door shut with almost no sound.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I would love to hear your thoughts about my work!


End file.
